


Fandango

by delires



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Puck learns some new moves. Written before season 2 aired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fandango

The thing about respect is that once it has been earned, it is hard to un-earn. At least, where Noah Puckerman was concerned. Respect was important to him. It was a man thing. Caveman shit. And the thing about the gay kid - Kurt - was that it was really tough not to respect him. 

Sure, it looked like it would be easy. The guy minced about in tight pants and ankle boots and had the voice of a Disney Princess. It sure as hell looked easy. On the surface.

But on the inside that kid was solid as a rock.

He was the opposite of Puck’s ex-bro Finn, who was tall and broad and packed with muscle, but whose insides were this big old marshmallowy mess. Kurt looked like a marshmallow, but if you tried to bite him, you’d find yourself with a mouth full of broken teeth.

Puck realised this when they were getting ready to perform at regionals. 

Around that time, he and Kurt had reached a kind of truce which involved no slushie-throwing, dumpster-tossing or basically...talking. They were as civil and silent with one another as they could be. 

But it was their second year at regionals and Puck was freaking out. Schue had given him a twelve-bar solo in the second number because Schue had this lame-ass complex about equality and was trying to not play favourites, which was totally pointless when it was so glaringly obvious who his favourite (Finn) was anyway. 

Maybe it was the three cups of coffee Puck had drunk to try to shift last night’s hangover, but his hands were shaking so badly as he tried to fasten his shirt, that he managed to pull off a button right above his navel.

“Goddamnit!” Puck snapped. He lashed out at the dressing table, sending a cascade of hair and make-up junk all over the floor. 

Kurt, who was fastening his cuffs in front of the mirror, a picture of composure, spared Puck’s histrionics a glance filled with utmost disdain.

“Easy there, Rocky,” he drawled, “keep your spandex on. What’s your grief?”

When Puck had stopped cursing long enough to show Kurt his gaping shirt, the guy merely clicked his tongue dismissively and then extracted a sewing kit from Mercedes’ bulging make-up bag. Puck watched as Kurt licked the end of a length of thread and pushed it through the eye of a needle.

“Stay still or you’ll get a new piercing,” Kurt warned, before starting to sew the button back in place with practised, efficient strokes. “I got into the habit of sewing all mine on by hand,” he said, as conversational as if they were waiting for a bus. “I don’t trust machine stitching.”

“What?” Puck snapped, because he was baffled and nervous and running a cold sweat. He tried to focus on the sharp little motions of Kurt’s fingers and to quit imagining that he could still taste tequila at the back of his throat.

“I cut the buttons off of new clothes and sew them on again properly. That way I know they’re not going anywhere.”

It was ridiculous. It was so ridiculous that Puck forgot himself.

“You’re such a fag,” he said. 

“And you’re such a dick,” was Kurt’s reply.

Although there was absolutely no need for it, especially when this kid was doing him a favour, Puck couldn’t help himself. It just came out.

“Bet you want to swallow me up whole then, queer boy.”

Even as he said it, he knew it was too much. Kurt looked up at him, jaw tightening and it was instantly obvious that he had never been composed at all. The guy was wound just as tight as Puck, but had been hiding it better. Kurt dropped the loose thread of the button he was sewing. Before Puck had any idea what was about to happen, he seized a different button halfway up Puck’s chest and pulled it off in one firm tug.

“Sew that one yourself,” Kurt said. He flicked the button smartly back at Puck and then walked away before Puck could even get over the shock of it.

Miss Pilsbury ended up safety-pinning Puck’s shirt together. He performed like that, and the whole show came off without a hitch. Puck had been so pleased at not bluffing his notes that he didn’t even feel the urge to take revenge for the whole button drama. In fact, in the haze of triumph, Kurt’s actions began to look fairly awesome and not at all unwarranted. So, when they were getting on the victory bus home, Puck stood back from the door and let Kurt on ahead of him, by means of an apology. When Kurt looked kind of suspicious but still said ‘thank you’, Puck figured that amounted to forgiveness.

*

Unfortunately, there seemed to be something about Puck and pre-match jitters when it came to glee, because the next time they had to perform a big show - a charity gig a month after regionals – he picked a fight with Finn in the changing rooms half an hour before their cue and ended up with a swelling bruise on his left cheek bone. 

It had been easy to do; he and Finn had never quite made peace after last year’s baby fiasco. But while Quinn and Rachel and Schue were all rushing to calm Finn down, it was Kurt who ushered Puck away from the scene of the crime and handed him an ice cold can of Coke from the vending machine to press against his cheek. 

Kurt moved with the same efficiency he had when sewing on Puck’s button, nudging the Coke eventually aside and coming at Puck’s face with some kind of gold pen.

“What is it?” Puck asked, leaning back out of Kurt’s reach. Kurt looked impatient.

“It is a Touche Eclat. Yves Saint Laurent,” he said, as though it should have been perfectly obvious.

“What the hell is that?”

“As far as you’re concerned, a magic wand. I’m a lot paler than you but this stuff blends like a miracle,” Kurt said. He held Puck’s chin with firm fingers and brushed the make-up onto Puck’s cheek. It felt odd. People did not often touch Puck out of context. He was used to being pawed at during sex and battered around the football pitch, but when it came to touching that was both non-sexual and non-violent, Puck was a contact-free zone. He stared at the concentration on Kurt’s face.

“Why are you helping me instead of Finn?” he asked, “I’m the bad guy, aren’t I?”

“Because Finn has a whole gang of admirers to take care of him,” Kurt said, with a wry curl of his lip, “And besides, there are no bad guys before a performance. You all have to pull together, no matter what. Every showman worth his salt knows that.”

Kurt held the Touch thing between two fingers like a cigarette while he blended the concealer with the fingertips of his other hand.

“The show must go on,” he said, “And the last thing we need is you walking on stage looking like a domestic abuse awareness campaign.”

Puck laughed at that. Kurt smiled back. And that was the first step in what was to become the most baffling friendship that Puck would ever participate in. 

*

In the months before nationals Puck saw Kurt nearly every day at practice. Since he was still only intermittently friends with Finn, he needed somebody to fall back on whenever things got rocky. Kurt was an unthreatening option. 

Okay, so the kid was ragingly, revoltingly gay, but he was also so obviously all hung up on Finn that Puck never felt ill at ease around him. Besides, Puck himself was as straight as they came. He'd had the impregnated cheerleader to prove it. Kurt was entirely the opposite of threatening. He was a safe bet.

The first time that Puck realised that he and Kurt were honest-to-God friends was at the start of practice one day when they had attempted to pass through the door at exactly the same time and ended up jostling one another and standing just inside the practice room, both looking affronted. It could have easily tipped into an argument. Instead, Kurt cocked his head to one side and waved a finger in Puck’s general direction. 

“What’s this smell?” he asked.

It took Puck a moment to work out that Kurt was not being offensive, but was commenting on his cologne. Puck frowned, scrubbed one fist across his throat and sniffed at his knuckles.

“Hugo,” he decided, “Hugo...something.”

With the same platonic ease of button-sewing and make-up application, Kurt reached out and plucked a handful of Puck’s shirt, tugging it away from his chest to smell it better.

“Is it the one with the blue bottle?” Kurt asked, frowning.

“Yeah,” Puck said, “Yeah, I think it’s blue.”

As Tina squeezed through the doorway they were still sort of blocking, Kurt stepped back out of her way with barely a glance of recognition.

“Hey, Kurt,” she said, with only a skittish nod of greeting to Puck.

Kurt waved one distracted hand in Tina’s direction, and then said, “Do you have the round one?” as though he and Puck were actually engaged in meaningful conversation.

“What?” Puck said, as Tina slunk away from them.

“The Hugo Boss fragrance that comes in a round bottle. I forget its name.”

Kurt cupped his hands together, imitating a sphere. Puck stared at the shape of Kurt’s hands and then shook his head.

“No.”

“The round one would suit you,” Kurt said before he turned and beckoned Puck towards the chairs that Schue was unstacking on the other side of the practice room. “Sit next to me.”

Puck did sit next to him, and then sat next to him most days after that. 

People said jackass things sometimes, about Puck being on such good terms with the gayest kid in school, but whatever. Maybe being friends with Kurt was rubbing off on him, because Puck didn't care anymore about what anybody else thought of him. He knew he was still badass. If anyone doubted, then the guns could prove it to them. Besides, Kurt could be pretty badass too. He had a smart mouth which he wasn’t afraid to use and which Puck couldn’t rival. It was his smart mouth which really cemented Puck’s respect for him. 

*

Queen week. They stood at the back of the practice room, Kurt leaning all his weight into one hip, Puck with his arms folded across his chest. They wore identical looks of semi-jealous disdain as they watched Rachel and Finn belt out the lead vocals for their choice of song, which Schue would inevitably pick to be the big number for the whole group to sing.

Puck murmured, “This is bullshit.”

Kurt jerked his head to glare at Puck sternly.

“Queen is not bullshit,” he said.

Puck had actually meant that Finn and Rachel were bullshit, but the look in Kurt’s eyes told him that Kurt already knew that and wasn’t about to talk about it here.

So Puck said, “No, the music’s cool. Don’t get me wrong. It’s the lyrics that are messed up. ‘Scaramoosh will you do the fandango?’ Come on. What the fuck?”

Kurt kept quiet for a minute, his gaze drifting off to follow the clumsy stomping of Finn’s feet. Then he shook his head and said, completely straight-faced, “Puck, you are so ignorant sometimes I swear it’s untrue. The fandango is a kind of dance.”

When Puck merely raised one sceptical eyebrow, Kurt heaved a long-suffering sigh and continued. “It is a type of freestyle dance which is totally unique to you. Nobody else can do it. It’s entirely your own. Like handwriting. Or fingerprints. Everyone with half a brain knows that.”

This was not at all what ‘fandango’ meant. Unfortunately for Puck, he didn’t work that out until he had already made himself look an idiot by trotting out Kurt’s fake definition in front of Mercedes and Brittany. So what if Brittany bought it? Mercedes laughed her ass off. When Puck turned on Kurt the accusatory glare he had been perfecting over these post-getting-outed-as-Quinn’s-babydaddy months, Kurt had merely smiled serenely in response.

“You’re so gullible,” he said, as he leant across the piano for their share of the sheet music.

“I’m not,” Puck retorted. “You’re just really sneaky. A sneaky little gay boy who likes to make other people hurt.”

He could say stuff like that to Kurt now without getting his shirt ripped apart, because that was what it meant to be friends. Puck accepted the sheets offered to him and passed half of them on to Mercedes, who was only just beginning to get her laughter under control.

“Hey, Puck," she said, "Did you know that the word 'gullible' isn’t in the dictionary?”

“Bullshit.”

“Seriously. Gullible. It’s not in the dictionary.”

Puck opened his mouth to repeat his reaction, but Kurt cut in ahead of him.

“Well, not in the English dictionary, Mercedes.”

“Huh?” Mercedes turned to look at him.

“Just because gullible isn’t in the English dictionary, doesn’t mean that it’s not in any dictionary. It’s a French word. From the verb ‘gulliber’, which means ‘to con’." When Puck still looked sceptical, Kurt smiled winsomely and said, “Honestly. You can find it in a French dictionary, sure. But look it up in an English one and it won’t be there.”

Puck did look it up. And then spent the rest of his evening trying to come up with a way to get back at Kurt.

He worked better on instinct, though. Like a tiger. He could premeditate nothing. The opportunity for revenge came upon him like an epiphany, days later. They were halfway through choreography for the _Cabaret_ number, the bit where he and Kurt crossed paths, stage right, in front of Finn, who had just taken position on the folding chair. One carefully angled shove sent Kurt sprawling all over Finn’s lap and then all Puck had to do was sit back and watch the messy homoerotic fumbling and awkward apologies unfold. Finn had been terrified. Kurt had turned scarlet. Mr. Schue had torn Puck a new one, but Puck had still gone home vindicated, thinking of the uncomfortable night the soon-to-be stepbrothers would be passing in their shared bedroom. 

Kurt stopped speaking to Puck for a whole day after that, but things soon settled down and their friendship really began to hit its stride.

When Puck was in danger of flunking math and getting forced to quit his entire extracurricular life, Kurt slipped him answers to algebra homework during study hall, so that glee wouldn’t lose a singer. In return, Puck would strike his most threatening poses whenever the football team were giving Kurt a hard time. And, okay, on occasion he thrust a little muscle around, too, because it never hurt to show that you meant business. It was the least Puck could do when Kurt had been in trouble with Schue three times now for miming answers to him from across the classroom during Spanish quizzes.

They formed a bond of pure symbiosis. By the time Puck had dragged his grades up enough to be back in the black, Kurt had helped the Cheerios to win another national competition, becoming Coach Sylvester’s prized possession and thus basically untouchable in school. They didn’t need one another after that, but since they were already kind of joined at the hip, they just kept on that way.

But then it went the direction that everything in Puck’s life seemed to go: head over dick.

It happened two months before nationals. Mr. Schue, ever ready to capitalise on the weaknesses of others whilst still maintaining the front of being in no way exactly the same as Coach Sylvester, had taken advantage of their budding friendship. He made hearts sink by announcing “This week, you’re all gonna be a little bit country!” with that over-enthusiastic light in his eyes. He subtly manoeuvred Puck into partnering Kurt in the dreaded country music assignment and then packed everyone off to prepare a number to perform for the rest of the club.

Puck was mostly just pleased not to be paired with Rachel, and despite his initial lamentations over the potential costume disasters of country music, Kurt sucked up his own objections in record time. They set to work preparing a number which stretched the theme of ‘country’ to its quivering limits, agreeing on a duet between Johnny Cash and June Carter. There was a girly part for Kurt to sing and the Man in Black was certainly badass enough to deserve Puck’s respect.

Largely because of Puck’s awesome guitar skills, they pulled together a performance which would knock the others on their asses.

“It’s fierce,” said Puck, which was a word he’d recently picked up and started to run with.

“We are fierce,” Kurt corrected, as he stood up and swung the strap of his bag across his chest. Puck could only agree with that.

“We’re so fierce.” He paused in packing away his guitar to hold one fist out to Kurt, who knocked their knuckles together with more strength than any countertenor should by rights possess.

That whole part went smoothly enough. Things only started to go wrong that evening, when Puck found himself standing in his room with an empty evening and nothing to fill it with. His mother had taken his sister to the movies, so the house was quiet. He was alone.

The answer was obvious.

Puck was settled back against his pillows, well into the rhythm of jerking himself off to thoughts of Jenna Jameson when the piercing ring of his phone shocked his eyes open and stilled his wrist.

Cursing, he snatched the phone from his nightstand with his free hand and pressed the answer button before any thought of rejecting the call or even checking the caller id had entered his mind.

“Hello,” Puck barked.

“Are you near a TV? Turn on channel twelve, right now. Right now,” Kurt’s voice gasped urgently through the phone.

Puck’s hand flew away from his dick faster than if his mother had just thrown open his bedroom door. He swallowed down all his breath and nearly choked on it.

“Shit. Hummel, I’m kind of-”

“Now!”

And because it was easier than arguing, because the sooner he could get rid of Kurt’s voice in his ear, the better for everybody, Puck fumbled across the bedcovers for his remote control and flicked on the television set which sat opposite his bed. On the screen, lit from behind by glimmering stage lights, Reese Witherspoon and Joaquin Phoenix growled the words of ‘Jackson’ to one another with feeling. The familiar chords of the duet he and Kurt had prepared for glee settled muggily over Puck’s lust-muddled brain.

“Our cover is literally so much better that it makes me want to cry,” Kurt said down the phone, “Though, I did sort of dig their second verse. There’s no shame in adapting ours a little to pick up on that. Right?”

Puck swallowed over the dry lump in his throat, because seriously, Reese was kind of cute and he was still halfway through jacking it.

“Uh huh,” he muttered, his hand drifting downwards once more.

Thankfully, Kurt seemed to have already lost interest in the conversation as well.

“I have to go back to eye-fucking Joaquin right now,” he said, “but I’ll call you later when I’m through and we can discuss that second verse. I’m almost feeling Reese’s emphasis on the last line. Okay? Ciao.”

And with a mumbled goodbye, Puck left Kurt to disconnect the call and let the phone fall from his hand so that he could attend to more important matters.

He tugged himself with rough strokes, closing his eyes against the flickering television set and allowing his mind to recreate Reese’s delicate features and the pert swell of her breasts. He imagined the slide of her pale hands around his waist, the crooked little smile on her lips as she tilted her face up willingly and rocked onto her toes to help fill the height difference between them. Puck imagined catching her tiny shoulders to pull her closer, the visualisations intercut with sensations of the tight, wet heat which awaited.

But instead of the shoulders beneath Puck’s imaginary grip being fragile and feminine, he felt them packed with compact muscle. When it came, the slick drag of the mouth against Puck’s throat was clumsy and hurried, raw rather than skilled. And when Reese clutched at the back of Puck’s skull and her eyelashes fluttered over her eyes they suddenly were not her eyes, they were Kurt’s, all of it was Kurt, and Puck tried to halt that image before it was too late, he tried to, but then he accidentally thought the word ‘defile’ and bam, there it was. He was shooting his load all over Kurt’s imaginary face.

*

Kurt didn’t call back that night. Puck wondered if it was because he’d worn himself out with dreams of Joaquin the same way that Puck had with dreams of Kurt.

The thought made him nauseous.

To say that their presentation of the ‘Jackson’ number was a little awkward would have been an understatement. Puck was unable to even look at Kurt during their performance, despite the plaintive little glances and confused pouts he could just feel Kurt making at him.

He bolted from practice as fast as he could that day and was home in record time to wash dishes for his mother in some attempt at penance. He felt like a sex offender. He wanted to hide away from the world in shame. It was almost as bad as the time that he had impregnated Quinn, only a bit worse because Kurt was a guy and what the hell had Puck’s brain been on to have allowed something so terrible to occur?

For a distressing twenty minutes over dinner, Puck found himself agonising about what the hell he would tell Finn. He had defiled Finn’s girlfriend and now he had defiled his brother. There was no way that Finn would forgive him a second time. This was game over.

It didn’t help that when Puck had set about composing a message to Finn, with his phone hidden from his mother beneath the table cloth, the predictive text had changed Kurt’s name into the word ‘lust’.

By the time Puck remembered that he hadn’t actually molested Kurt, he had already excused himself from dinner in a panic and was standing in the centre of his room, phone in hand, all ready to make a grovelling apologetic call to Finn.

When his phone rang a moment later, flashing the word ‘Hummel’ all over the screen, Puck almost didn’t answer it. He might have let it ring to voicemail had his heartbeat not begun to race queasily at the mere sight of the name. He thought of all the Spanish classes and glee practices still to come and realised that, like tearing off a band aid, the least painful way to get through something this unpleasant was to do it as quickly as possible. He accepted the call before he could lose his nerve, and unfortunately, before his voice could work up to the word ‘hello’. The greeting caught in his throat and never made it out.

“What’s with the heavy breathing?” Kurt said, when he was answered by nothing but choked static. “You sound like a paedophile.”

The voice was so familiar that Puck suddenly saw sense. He had been having inappropriate thoughts about inappropriate people since the day he hit puberty and it had never yet made him lose his cool. There was no reason why the boy he used to toss in dumpsters should make things any different.

Puck slumped down into his desk chair with a dismissive chuckle.

“Do paedophiles breathe heavier than other people?” he said.

“No. I don’t know. I guess not. Puck, I,” Kurt said, and then paused, presumably to allow Puck’s mind to fill in the gap with as many dirty words as it could.

“I don’t want us to not be friends. Are we cool?” Kurt asked hesitantly.

The words ‘we’re cool if you let me do you’ rose instantly in Puck’s throat. He smacked them down.

“Sure. Of course we’re cool.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“You don’t sound convincing.”

Puck uncurled his fingers from the arm of the chair, which he was gripping hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

“Hummel. We’re fine. I just don’t feel right today. I guess I’m coming down with something,” Puck said. “I don’t want to not have you, either. As a friend, I mean. I’m not...you know. It’s not going to go back to before.”

“Alright,” Kurt said. His voice was so quiet and sweet that it crowded Puck’s mind with pet names.

Puck ignored those and settled for, “Okay, bro. I’ll see you around.”

“See you,” Kurt echoed, before the dial tone rang in Puck’s ear.

*

Summer broke a week later. Rachel threw a ‘school’s out’ barbeque at her house and invited the whole club. Half of Puck thought that going to a party at a gay-owned residence was a step too far for his current existential crisis to manage. The other half of him thought, ‘booze and hot-dogs’ and then, ‘Kurt’. So he went.

Rachel was as overbearing and nauseating as ever. She had mixed up virgin punch, which Puck chucked half of his flask of vodka into because Puck liked to share the love. Kurt saw him do it, but didn’t complain.

“Finally,” Kurt said, dipping his plastic cup into the liquid to have the first taste.

Puck looked at the plumpness of Kurt’s lips, remembered the phantom press of them, and, because his mouth always went too fast for his brain, he grinned wide and blurted: “Virginity never lasts long around me.”

There was a brief, bewildered silence in which Puck thought he would to have to give a shameful explanation of exactly why his joke was funny, which is every comedian’s nightmare. But then Kurt turned to look at him with two spots of colour growing in his cheeks.

“I don’t know about that,” Kurt said levelly, though not quite meeting Puck’s gaze. “I’ve been around you for a while now and I seem to be lasting pretty well.”

It was not a response Puck had been expecting and perhaps not one Kurt had been expecting to give, because for a moment they both froze, registering the undercurrents flowing between them with mutual alarm.

To break the tension, Kurt mumbled something about finding Mercedes and walked away quickly, leaving Puck’s mind empty of all thoughts, save one: ‘the boy is lush. I need to tap that.’

Certainty flooded through Puck’s body. He was attracted to a guy. So what? He was a badass and he could do whatever the hell he liked. He knew the moves by heart. All he had to do was use them.

He threw his best swagger into his hips as he followed Kurt out into yard and, because there was no point wasting time, moved to block him in against the nearest wall. With one fist braced casually against the rough brick, Puck leaned into Kurt’s personal space and let his voice ooze low with intent.

“Did I ever tell you that the predictive text on my phone changes your name into ‘lust’?”

It was about the greatest line that Puck had ever pulled out of his ass for anyone, but Kurt took one incredulous look at Puck’s posture and its unmistakeable signals and then slipped gracefully free of Puck’s looming bulk.

“You know, you can fix it not to do that,” he said pointedly.

“Maybe I don’t care to fix it,” Puck said, and when Kurt’s eyebrows climbed another centimetre closer to his hairline, he added, “Maybe I think it’s appropriate. Maybe I think it suits you.”

Kurt tossed his head with a snort of laughter.

“Well, my predictive text turns your name into ‘suck’. You think that’s appropriate?” he scoffed.

In an instant, Puck knew that his moves didn’t fit this beat. The lines were too easy for Kurt to counter. They all rang hollow.

As Kurt seemed about to step away, an instinct to keep him there took over. Puck moved without thought. He thrust one palm flat against the top of Kurt’s chest, feeling the hard ridge of Kurt’s collarbone beneath his thumb, and pushed until Kurt had to step backwards awkwardly, one hand grating against the brick wall for support. While Kurt was still fumbling over his balance, Puck stepped so close that he imagined he could feel the thrum of their combined heartbeats reverberating in the small space between them. He dipped his head urgently.

“The other night I jerked off thinking about you,” Puck said. It sounded painfully honest even to his own ears, and despite the gloom, Puck was close enough to see the nervous swallow flex in Kurt’s throat. Kurt wasn’t laughing this time. He levelled Puck with a sharp, unwavering stare.

“And what am I supposed to do with that?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Puck said, dragging the side of his sneaker slowly against Kurt’s ankle as he did so. Kurt didn’t say anything. His mouth opened like he was about to say something smart but when no words came out and his lips stayed parted, Puck knew that he had gotten it right. The kiss came naturally, with Puck pressing the two of them together and against the wall, imprinting them there like a fingerprint.


End file.
